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Pierre, as one of the principal guests, had to sit down to boston with
Count Rostov, the general, and the colonel. At the card table he happened to be
directly facing Natasha, and was struck by a curious change that had come over
her since the ball, She was silent, and not only less pretty than at the ball,
but only redeemed from plainness by her look of gentle indifference to
everything around. |
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"What's the matter with her?" thought Pierre, glancing at her.
She was sitting by her sister at the tea table, and reluctantly, without looking
at him, made some reply to Boris who sat down beside her. After playing out a
whole suit and to his partner's delight taking five tricks, Pierre, hearing
greetings and the steps of someone who had entered the room while he was picking
up his tricks, glanced again at Natasha. |
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"What has happened to her?" he asked himself with still greater
surprise. |
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Prince Andrew was standing before her, saying something to her with a
look of tender solicitude. She, having raised her head, was looking up at him,
flushed and evidently trying to master her rapid breathing. And the bright glow
of some inner fire that had been suppressed was again alight in her. She was
completely transformed and from a plain girl had again become what she had been
at the ball. |
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Prince Andrew went up to Pierre, and the latter noticed a new and
youthful expression in his friend's face. |
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Pierre changed places several times during the game, sitting now with his
back to Natasha and now facing her, but during the whole of the six rubbers he
watched her and his friend. |
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"Something very important is happening between them," thought
Pierre, and a feeling that was both joyful and painful agitated him and made him
neglect the game. |
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After six rubbers the general got up, saying that it was no use playing
like that, and Pierre was released. Natasha on one side was talking with Sonya
and Boris, and Vera with a subtle smile was saying something to Prince Andrew.
Pierre went up to his friend and, asking whether they were talking secrets, sat
down beside them. Vera, having noticed Prince Andrew's attentions to Natasha,
decided that at a party, a real evening party, subtle allusions to the tender
passion were absolutely necessary and, seizing a moment when Prince Andrew was
alone, began a conversation with him about feelings in general and about her
sister. With so intellectual a guest as she considered Prince Andrew to be, she
felt that she had to employ her diplomatic tact. |
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When Pierre went up to them he noticed that Vera was being carried away
by her self-satisfied talk, but that Prince Andrew seemed embarrassed, a thing
that rarely happened with him. |
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"What do you think?" Vera was saying with an arch smile.
"You are so discerning, Prince, and understand people's characters so well
at a glance. What do you think of Natalie? Could she be constant in her
attachments? Could she, like other women" (Vera meant herself), "love
a man once for all and remain true to him forever? That is what I consider true
love. What do you think, Prince?" |
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"I know your sister too little," replied Prince Andrew, with a
sarcastic smile under which he wished to hide his embarrassment, "to be
able to solve so delicate a question, and then I have noticed that the less
attractive a woman is the more constant she is likely to be," he added, and
looked up Pierre who was just approaching them. |
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"Yes, that is true, Prince. In our days," continued Vera-
mentioning "our days" as people of limited intelligence are fond of
doing, imagining that they have discovered and appraised the peculiarities of
"our days" and that human characteristics change with the times-
"in our days a girl has so much freedom that the pleasure of being courted
often stifles real feeling in her. And it must be confessed that Natalie is very
susceptible." This return to the subject of Natalie caused Prince Andrew to
knit his brows with discomfort: he was about to rise, but Vera continued with a
still more subtle smile: |
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"I think no one has been more courted than she," she went on,
"but till quite lately she never cared seriously for anyone. Now you know,
Count," she said to Pierre, "even our dear cousin Boris, who, between
ourselves, was very far gone in the land of tenderness..." (alluding to a
map of love much in vogue at that time). |
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Prince Andrew frowned and remained silent. |
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"You are friendly with Boris, aren't you?" asked Vera. |
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"Yes, I know him..." |
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"I expect he has told you of his childish love for Natasha?" |
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"Oh, there was childish love?" suddenly asked Prince Andrew,
blushing unexpectedly. |
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"Yes, you know between cousins intimacy often leads to love. Le
cousinage est un dangereux voisinage.* Don't you think so?" |
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*"Cousinhood is a dangerous neighborhood." |
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"Oh, undoubtedly!" said Prince Andrew, and with sudden and
unnatural liveliness he began chaffing Pierre about the need to be very careful
with his fifty-year-old Moscow cousins, and in the midst of these jesting
remarks he rose, taking Pierre by the arm, and drew him aside. |
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"Well?" asked Pierre, seeing his friend's strange animation
with surprise, and noticing the glance he turned on Natasha as he rose. |
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"I must... I must have a talk with you," said Prince Andrew.
"You know that pair of women's gloves?" (He referred to the Masonic
gloves given to a newly initiated Brother to present to the woman he loved.)
"I... but no, I will talk to you later on," and with a strange light
in his eyes and restlessness in his movements, Prince Andrew approached Natasha
and sat down beside her. Pierre saw how Prince Andrew asked her something and
how she flushed as she replied. |
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But at that moment Berg came to Pierre and began insisting that he should
take part in an argument between the general and the colonel on the affairs in
Spain. |
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Berg was satisfied and happy. The smile of pleasure never left his face.
The party was very successful and quite like other parties he had seen.
Everything was similar: the ladies' subtle talk, the cards, the general raising
his voice at the card table, and the samovar and the tea cakes; only one thing
was lacking that he had always seen at the evening parties he wished to imitate.
They had not yet had a loud conversation among the men and a dispute about
something important and clever. Now the general had begun such a discussion and
so Berg drew Pierre to it. |
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Next day, having been invited by the count, Prince Andrew dined with the
Rostovs and spent the rest of the day there. |
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Everyone in the house realized for whose sake Prince Andrew came, and
without concealing it he tried to be with Natasha all day. Not only in the soul
of the frightened yet happy and enraptured Natasha, but in the whole house,
there was a feeling of awe at something important that was bound to happen. The
countess looked with sad and sternly serious eyes at Prince Andrew when he
talked to Natasha and timidly started some artificial conversation about trifles
as soon as he looked her way. Sonya was afraid to leave Natasha and afraid of
being in the way when she was with them. Natasha grew pale, in a panic of
expectation, when she remained alone with him for a moment. Prince Andrew
surprised her by his timidity. She felt that he wanted to say something to her
but could not bring himself to do so. |
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In the evening, when Prince Andrew had left, the countess went up to
Natasha and whispered: "Well, what?" |
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"Mamma! For heaven's sake don't ask me anything now! One can't talk
about that," said Natasha. |
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But all the same that night Natasha, now agitated and now frightened, lay
long time in her mother's bed gazing straight before her. She told her how he
had complimented her, how he told her he was going abroad, asked her where they
were going to spend the summer, and then how he had asked her about Boris. |
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"But such a... such a... never happened to me before!" she
said. "Only I feel afraid in his presence. I am always afraid when I'm with
him. What does that mean? Does it mean that it's the real thing? Yes? Mamma, are
you asleep?" |
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"No, my love; I am frightened myself," answered her mother.
"Now go!" |
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"All the same I shan't sleep. What silliness, to sleep! Mummy!
Mummy! such a thing never happened to me before," she said, surprised and
alarmed at the feeling she was aware of in herself. "And could we ever have
thought!..." |
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It seemed to Natasha that even at the time she first saw Prince Andrew at
Otradnoe she had fallen in love with him. It was as if she feared this strange,
unexpected happiness of meeting again the very man she had then chosen (she was
firmly convinced she had done so) and of finding him, as it seemed, not
indifferent to her. |
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"And it had to happen that he should come specially to Petersburg
while we are here. And it had to happen that we should meet at that ball. It is
fate. Clearly it is fate that everything led up to this! Already then, directly
I saw him I felt something peculiar." |
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"What else did he say to you? What are those verses? Read
them..." said her mother, thoughtfully, referring to some verses Prince
Andrew had written in Natasha's album. |
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"Mamma, one need not be ashamed of his being a widower?" |
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"Don't, Natasha! Pray to God. 'Marriages are made in heaven,'"
said her mother. |
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"Darling Mummy, how I love you! How happy I am!" cried Natasha,
shedding tears of joy and excitement and embracing her mother. |
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At that very time Prince Andrew was sitting with Pierre and telling him
of his love for Natasha and his firm resolve to make her his wife. |
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That day Countess Helene had a reception at her house. The French
ambassador was there, and a foreign prince of the blood who had of late become a
frequent visitor of hers, and many brilliant ladies and gentlemen. Pierre, who
had come downstairs, walked through the rooms and struck everyone by his
preoccupied, absent-minded, and morose air. |
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Since the ball he had felt the approach of a fit of nervous depression
and had made desperate efforts to combat it. Since the intimacy of his wife with
the royal prince, Pierre had unexpectedly been made a gentleman of the
bedchamber, and from that time he had begun to feel oppressed and ashamed in
court society, and dark thoughts of the vanity of all things human came to him
oftener than before. At the same time the feeling he had noticed between his
protegee Natasha and Prince Andrew accentuated his gloom by the contrast between
his own position and his friend's. He tried equally to avoid thinking about his
wife, and about Natasha and Prince Andrew; and again everything seemed to him
insignificant in comparison with eternity; again the question: for what?
presented itself; and he forced himself to work day and night at Masonic labors,
hoping to drive away the evil spirit that threatened him. Toward midnight, after
he had left the countess' apartments, he was sitting upstairs in a shabby
dressing gown, copying out the original transaction of the Scottish lodge of
Freemasons at a table in his low room cloudy with tobacco smoke, when someone
came in. It was Prince Andrew. |
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"Ah, it's you!" said Pierre with a preoccupied, dissatisfied
air. "And I, you see, am hard at it." He pointed to his manuscript
book with that air of escaping from the ills of life with which unhappy people
look at their work. |
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Prince Andrew, with a beaming, ecstatic expression of renewed life on his
face, paused in front of Pierre and, not noticing his sad look, smiled at him
with the egotism of joy. |
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"Well, dear heart," said he, "I wanted to tell you about
it yesterday and I have come to do so today. I never experienced anything like
it before. I am in love, my friend!" |
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Suddenly Pierre heaved a deep sigh and dumped his heavy person down on
the sofa beside Prince Andrew. |
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"With Natasha Rostova, yes?" said he. |
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"Yes, yes! Who else should it be? I should never have believed it,
but the feeling is stronger than I. Yesterday I tormented myself and suffered,
but I would not exchange even that torment for anything in the world, I have not
lived till now. At last I live, but I can't live without her! But can she love
me?... I am too old for her.... Why don't you speak?" |
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"I? I? What did I tell you?" said Pierre suddenly, rising and
beginning to pace up and down the room. "I always thought it.... That girl
is such a treasure... she is a rare girl.... My dear friend, I entreat you,
don't philosophize, don't doubt, marry, marry, marry.... And I am sure there
will not be a happier man than you." |
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"But what of her?" |
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"She loves you." |
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"Don't talk rubbish..." said Prince Andrew, smiling and looking
into Pierre's eyes. |
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"She does, I know," Pierre cried fiercely. |
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"But do listen," returned Prince Andrew, holding him by the
arm. "Do you know the condition I am in? I must talk about it to
someone." |
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"Well, go on, go on. I am very glad," said Pierre, and his face
really changed, his brow became smooth, and he listened gladly to Prince Andrew.
Prince Andrew seemed, and really was, quite a different, quite a new man. Where
was his spleen, his contempt for life, his disillusionment? Pierre was the only
person to whom he made up his mind to speak openly; and to him he told all that
was in his soul. Now he boldly and lightly made plans for an extended future,
said he could not sacrifice his own happiness to his father's caprice, and spoke
of how he would either make his father consent to this marriage and love her, or
would do without his consent; then he marveled at the feeling that had mastered
him as at something strange, apart from and independent of himself. |
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"I should not have believed anyone who told me that I was capable of
such love," said Prince Andrew. "It is not at all the same feeling
that I knew in the past. The whole world is now for me divided into two halves:
one half is she, and there all is joy, hope, light: the other half is everything
where she is not, and there is all gloom and darkness...." |
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"Darkness and gloom," reiterated Pierre: "yes, yes, I
understand that." |
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"I cannot help loving the light, it is not my fault. And I am very
happy! You understand me? I know you are glad for my sake." |
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"Yes, yes," Pierre assented, looking at his friend with a
touched and sad expression in his eyes. The brighter Prince Andrew's lot
appeared to him, the gloomier seemed his own. |
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Prince Andrew needed his father's consent to his marriage, and to obtain
this he started for the country next day. |
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His father received his son's communication with external composure, but
inward wrath. He could not comprehend how anyone could wish to alter his life or
introduce anything new into it, when his own life was already ending. "If
only they would let me end my days as I want to," thought the old man,
"then they might do as they please." With his son, however, he
employed the diplomacy he reserved for important occasions and, adopting a quiet
tone, discussed the whole matter. |
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In the first place the marriage was not a brilliant one as regards birth,
wealth, or rank. Secondly, Prince Andrew was no longer as young as he had been
and his health was poor (the old man laid special stress on this), while she was
very young. Thirdly, he had a son whom it would be a pity to entrust to a chit
of a girl. "Fourthly and finally," the father said, looking ironically
at his son, "I beg you to put it off for a year: go abroad, take a cure,
look out as you wanted to for a German tutor for Prince Nicholas. Then if your
love or passion or obstinacy- as you please- is still as great, marry! And
that's my last word on it. Mind, the last..." concluded the prince, in a
tone which showed that nothing would make him alter his decision. |
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Prince Andrew saw clearly that the old man hoped that his feelings, or
his fiancee's, would not stand a year's test, or that he (the old prince
himself) would die before then, and he decided to conform to his father's wish-
to propose, and postpone the wedding for a year. |
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Three weeks after the last evening he had spent with the Rostovs, Prince
Andrew returned to Petersburg. |
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Next day after her talk with her mother Natasha expected Bolkonski all
day, but he did not come. On the second and third day it was the same. Pierre
did not come either and Natasha, not knowing that Prince Andrew had gone to see
his father, could not explain his absence to herself. |
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Three weeks passed in this way. Natasha had no desire to go out anywhere
and wandered from room to room like a shadow, idle and listless; she wept
secretly at night and did not go to her mother in the evenings. She blushed
continually and was irritable. It seemed to her that everybody knew about her
disappointment and was laughing at her and pitying her. Strong as was her inward
grief, this wound to her vanity intensified her misery. |
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Once she came to her mother, tried to say something, and suddenly began
to cry. Her tears were those of an offended child who does not know why it is
being punished. |
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The countess began to soothe Natasha, who after first listening to her
mother's words, suddenly interrupted her: |
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"Leave off, Mamma! I don't think, and don't want to think about it!
He just came and then left off, left off..." |
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Her voice trembled, and she again nearly cried, but recovered and went on
quietly: |
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"And I don't at all want to get married. And I am afraid of him; I
have now become quite calm, quite calm." |
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The day after this conversation Natasha put on the old dress which she
knew had the peculiar property of conducing to cheerfulness in the mornings, and
that day she returned to the old way of life which she had abandoned since the
ball. Having finished her morning tea she went to the ballroom, which she
particularly liked for its loud resonance, and began singing her solfeggio. When
she had finished her first exercise she stood still in the middle of the room
and sang a musical phrase that particularly pleased her. She listened joyfully
(as though she had not expected it) to the charm of the notes reverberating,
filling the whole empty ballroom, and slowly dying away; and all at once she
felt cheerful. "What's the good of making so much of it? Things are nice as
it is," she said to herself, and she began walking up and down the room,
not stepping simply on the resounding parquet but treading with each step from
the heel to the toe (she had on a new and favorite pair of shoes) and listening
to the regular tap of the heel and creak of the toe as gladly as she had to the
sounds of her own voice. Passing a mirror she glanced into it. "There,
that's me!" the expression of her face seemed to say as she caught sight of
herself. "Well, and very nice too! I need nobody." |
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A footman wanted to come in to clear away something in the room but she
would not let him, and having closed the door behind him continued her walk.
That morning she had returned to her favorite mood- love of, and delight in,
herself. "How charming that Natasha is!" she said again, speaking as
some third, collective, male person. "Pretty, a good voice, young, and in
nobody's way if only they leave her in peace." But however much they left
her in peace she could not now be at peace, and immediately felt this. |
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In the hall the porch door opened, and someone asked, "At
home?" and then footsteps were heard. Natasha was looking at the mirror,
but did not see herself. She listened to the sounds in the hall. When she saw
herself, her face was pale. It was he. She knew this for certain, though she
hardly heard his voice through the closed doors. |
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Pale and agitated, Natasha ran into the drawing room. |
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"Mamma! Bolkonski has come!" she said. "Mamma, it is
awful, it is unbearable! I don't want... to be tormented? What am I to
do?..." |
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Before the countess could answer, Prince Andrew entered the room with an
agitated and serious face. As soon as he saw Natasha his face brightened. He
kissed the countess' hand and Natasha's, and sat down beside the sofa. |
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"It is long since we had the pleasure..." began the countess,
but Prince Andrew interrupted her by answering her intended question, obviously
in haste to say what he had to. |
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"I have not been to see all this time because I have been at my
father's. I had to talk over a very important matter with him. I only got back
last night," he said glancing at Natasha; "I want to have a talk with
you, Countess," he added after a moment's pause. |
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The countess lowered her eyes, sighing deeply. |
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"I am at your disposal," she murmured. |
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Natasha knew that she ought to go away, but was unable to do so:
something gripped her throat, and regardless of manners she stared straight at
Prince Andrew with wide-open eyes. |
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"At once? This instant!... No, it can't be!" she thought. |
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Again he glanced at her, and that glance convinced her that she was not
mistaken. Yes, at once, that very instant, her fate would be decided. |
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"Go, Natasha! I will call you," said the countess in a whisper. |
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Natasha glanced with frightened imploring eyes at Prince Andrew and at
her mother and went out. |
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"I have come, Countess, to ask for your daughter's hand," said
Prince Andrew. |
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The countess' face flushed hotly, but she said nothing. |
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"Your offer..." she began at last sedately. He remained silent,
looking into her eyes. "Your offer..." (she grew confused) "is
agreeable to us, and I accept your offer. I am glad. And my husband... I hope...
but it will depend on her...." |
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"I will speak to her when I have your consent.... Do you give it to
me?" said Prince Andrew. |
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"Yes," replied the countess. She held out her hand to him, and
with a mixed feeling of estrangement and tenderness pressed her lips to his
forehead as he stooped to kiss her hand. She wished to love him as a son, but
felt that to her he was a stranger and a terrifying man. "I am sure my
husband will consent," said the countess, "but your father..." |
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"My father, to whom I have told my plans, has made it an express
condition of his consent that the wedding is not to take place for a year. And I
wished to tell you of that," said Prince Andrew. |
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"It is true that Natasha is still young, but- so long as
that?..." |
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"It is unavoidable," said Prince Andrew with a sigh. |
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"I will send her to you," said the countess, and left the room. |
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"Lord have mercy upon us!" she repeated while seeking her
daughter. |
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Sonya said that Natasha was in her bedroom. Natasha was sitting on the
bed, pale and dry eyed, and was gazing at the icons and whispering something as
she rapidly crossed herself. Seeing her mother she jumped up and flew to her. |
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"Well, Mamma?... Well?..." |
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"Go, go to him. He is asking for your hand," said the countess,
coldly it seemed to Natasha. "Go... go," said the mother, sadly and
reproachfully, with a deep sigh, as her daughter ran away. |
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Natasha never remembered how she entered the drawing room. When she came
in and saw him she paused. "Is it possible that this stranger has now
become everything to me?" she asked herself, and immediately answered,
"Yes, everything! He alone is now dearer to me than everything in the
world." Prince Andrew came up to her with downcast eyes. |
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"I have loved you from the very first moment I saw you. May I
hope?" |
|
|
He looked at her and was struck by the serious impassioned expression of
her face. Her face said: "Why ask? Why doubt what you cannot but know? Why
speak, when words cannot express what one feels?" |
|
|
She drew near to him and stopped. He took her hand and kissed it. |
|
|
"Do you love me?" |
|
|
"Yes, yes!" Natasha murmured as if in vexation. Then she sighed
loudly and, catching her breath more and more quickly, began to sob. |
|
|
"What is it? What's the matter?" |
|
|
"Oh, I am so happy!" she replied, smiled through her tears,
bent over closer to him, paused for an instant as if asking herself whether she
might, and then kissed him. |
|
|
Prince Andrew held her hands, looked into her eyes, and did not find in
his heart his former love for her. Something in him had suddenly changed; there
was no longer the former poetic and mystic charm of desire, but there was pity
for her feminine and childish weakness, fear at her devotion and trustfulness,
and an oppressive yet joyful sense of the duty that now bound him to her
forever. The present feeling, though not so bright and poetic as the former, was
stronger and more serious. |
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"Did your mother tell you that it cannot be for a year?" asked
Prince Andrew, still looking into her eyes. |
|
|
"Is it possible that I- the 'chit of a girl,' as everybody called
me," thought Natasha- "is it possible that I am now to be the wife and
the equal of this strange, dear, clever man whom even my father looks up to? Can
it be true? Can it be true that there can be no more playing with life, that now
I am grown up, that on me now lies a responsibility for my every word and deed?
Yes, but what did he ask me?" |
|
|
"No," she replied, but she had not understood his question. |
|
|
"Forgive me!" he said. "But you are so young, and I have
already been through so much in life. I am afraid for you, you do not yet know
yourself." |
|
|
Natasha listened with concentrated attention, trying but failing to take
in the meaning of his words. |
|
|
"Hard as this year which delays my happiness will be,"
continued Prince Andrew, "it will give you time to be sure of yourself. I
ask you to make me happy in a year, but you are free: our engagement shall
remain a secret, and should you find that you do not love me, or should you come
to love..." said Prince Andrew with an unnatural smile. |
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|
"Why do you say that?" Natasha interrupted him. "You know
that from the very day you first came to Otradnoe I have loved you," she
cried, quite convinced that she spoke the truth. |
|
|
"In a year you will learn to know yourself...." |
|
|
"A whole year!" Natasha repeated suddenly, only now realizing
that the marriage was to be postponed for a year. "But why a year? Why a
year?..." |
|
|
Prince Andrew began to explain to her the reasons for this delay. Natasha
did not hear him. |
|
|
"And can't it be helped?" she asked. Prince Andrew did not
reply, but his face expressed the impossibility of altering that decision. |
|
|
"It's awful! Oh, it's awful! awful!" Natasha suddenly cried,
and again burst into sobs. "I shall die, waiting a year: it's impossible,
it's awful!" She looked into her lover's face and saw in it a look of
commiseration and perplexity. |
|
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"No, no! I'll do anything!" she said, suddenly checking her
tears. "I am so happy." |
|
|
The father and mother came into the room and gave the betrothed couple
their blessing. |
|
|
From that day Prince Andrew began to frequent the Rostovs' as Natasha's
affianced lover. |
|
|
No betrothal ceremony took place and Natasha's engagement to Bolkonski
was not announced; Prince Andrew insisted on that. He said that as he was
responsible for the delay he ought to bear the whole burden of it; that he had
given his word and bound himself forever, but that he did not wish to bind
Natasha and gave her perfect freedom. If after six months she felt that she did
not love him she would have full right to reject him. Naturally neither Natasha
nor her parents wished to hear of this, but Prince Andrew was firm. He came
every day to the Rostovs', but did not behave to Natasha as an affianced lover:
he did not use the familiar thou, but said you to her, and kissed only her hand.
After their engagement, quite different, intimate, and natural relations sprang
up between them. It was as if they had not known each other till now. Both liked
to recall how they had regarded each other when as yet they were nothing to one
another; they felt themselves now quite different beings: then they were
artificial, now natural and sincere. At first the family felt some constraint in
intercourse with Prince Andrew; he seemed a man from another world, and for a
long time Natasha trained the family to get used to him, proudly assuring them
all that he only appeared to be different, but was really just like all of them,
and that she was not afraid of him and no one else ought to be. After a few days
they grew accustomed to him, and without restraint in his presence pursued their
usual way of life, in which he took his part. He could talk about rural economy
with the count, fashions with the countess and Natasha, and about albums and
fancywork with Sonya. Sometimes the household both among themselves and in his
presence expressed their wonder at how it had all happened, and at the evident
omens there had been of it: Prince Andrew's coming to Otradnoe and their coming
to Petersburg, and the likeness between Natasha and Prince Andrew which her
nurse had noticed on his first visit, and Andrew's encounter with Nicholas in
1805, and many other incidents betokening that it had to be. |
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In the house that poetic dullness and quiet reigned which always
accompanies the presence of a betrothed couple. Often when all sitting together
everyone kept silent. Sometimes the others would get up and go away and the
couple, left alone, still remained silent. They rarely spoke of their future
life. Prince Andrew was afraid and ashamed to speak of it. Natasha shared this
as she did all his feelings, which she constantly divined. Once she began
questioning him about his son. Prince Andrew blushed, as he often did now-
Natasha particularly liked it in him- and said that his son would not live with
them. |
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"Why not?" asked Natasha in a frightened tone. |
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"I cannot take him away from his grandfather, and besides..." |
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"How I should have loved him!" said Natasha, immediately
guessing his thought; "but I know you wish to avoid any pretext for finding
fault with us." |
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Sometimes the old count would come up, kiss Prince Andrew, and ask his
advice about Petya's education or Nicholas' service. The old countess sighed as
she looked at them; Sonya was always getting frightened lest she should be in
the way and tried to find excuses for leaving them alone, even when they did not
wish it. When Prince Andrew spoke (he could tell a story very well), Natasha
listened to him with pride; when she spoke she noticed with fear and joy that he
gazed attentively and scrutinizingly at her. She asked herself in perplexity:
"What does he look for in me? He is trying to discover something by looking
at me! What if what he seeks in me is not there?" Sometimes she fell into
one of the mad, merry moods characteristic of her, and then she particularly
loved to hear and see how Prince Andrew laughed. He seldom laughed, but when he
did he abandoned himself entirely to his laughter, and after such a laugh she
always felt nearer to him. Natasha would have been completely happy if the
thought of the separation awaiting her and drawing near had not terrified her,
just as the mere thought of it made him turn pale and cold. |
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On the eve of his departure from Petersburg Prince Andrew brought with
him Pierre, who had not been to the Rostovs' once since the ball. Pierre seemed
disconcerted and embarrassed. He was talking to the countess, and Natasha sat
down beside a little chess table with Sonya, thereby inviting Prince Andrew to
come too. He did so. |
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"You have known Bezukhov a long time?" he asked. "Do you
like him?" |
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"Yes, he's a dear, but very absurd." |
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And as usual when speaking of Pierre, she began to tell anecdotes of his
absent-mindedness, some of which had even been invented about him. |
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"Do you know I have entrusted him with our secret? I have known him
from childhood. He has a heart of gold. I beg you, Natalie," Prince Andrew
said with sudden seriousness- "I am going away and heaven knows what may
happen. You may cease to... all right, I know I am not to say that. Only this,
then: whatever may happen to you when I am not here..." |
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"What can happen?" |
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"Whatever trouble may come," Prince Andrew continued, "I
beg you, Mademoiselle Sophie, whatever may happen, to turn to him alone for
advice and help! He is a most absent-minded and absurd fellow, but he has a
heart of gold." |
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Neither her father, nor her mother, nor Sonya, nor Prince Andrew himself
could have foreseen how the separation from her lover would act on Natasha.
Flushed and agitated she went about the house all that day, dry-eyed, occupied
with most trivial matters as if not understanding what awaited her. She did not
even cry when, on taking leave, he kissed her hand for the last time.
"Don't go!" she said in a tone that made him wonder whether he really
ought not to stay and which he remembered long afterwards. Nor did she cry when
he was gone; but for several days she sat in her room dry-eyed, taking no
interest in anything and only saying now and then, "Oh, why did he go
away?" |
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But a fortnight after his departure, to the surprise of those around her,
she recovered from her mental sickness just as suddenly and became her old self
again, but with a change in her moral physiognomy, as a child gets up after a
long illness with a changed expression of face. |
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During that year after his son's departure, Prince Nicholas Bolkonski's
health and temper became much worse. He grew still more irritable, and it was
Princess Mary who generally bore the brunt of his frequent fits of unprovoked
anger. He seemed carefully to seek out her tender spots so as to torture her
mentally as harshly as possible. Princess Mary had two passions and consequently
two joys- her nephew, little Nicholas, and religion- and these were the favorite
subjects of the prince's attacks and ridicule. Whatever was spoken of he would
bring round to the superstitiousness of old maids, or the petting and spoiling
of children. "You want to make him"- little Nicholas- "into an
old maid like yourself! A pity! Prince Andrew wants a son and not an old
maid," he would say. Or, turning to Mademoiselle Bourienne, he would ask
her in Princess Mary's presence how she liked our village priests and icons and
would joke about them. |
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He continually hurt Princess Mary's feelings and tormented her, but it
cost her no effort to forgive him. Could he be to blame toward her, or could her
father, whom she knew loved her in spite of it all, be unjust? And what is
justice? The princess never thought of that proud word "justice." All
the complex laws of man centered for her in one clear and simple law- the law of
love and self-sacrifice taught us by Him who lovingly suffered for mankind
though He Himself was God. What had she to do with the justice or injustice of
other people? She had to endure and love, and that she did. |
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During the winter Prince Andrew had come to Bald Hills and had been gay,
gentle, and more affectionate than Princess Mary had known him for a long time
past. She felt that something had happened to him, but he said nothing to her
about his love. Before he left he had a long talk with his father about
something, and Princess Mary noticed that before his departure they were
dissatisfied with one another. |
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Soon after Prince Andrew had gone, Princess Mary wrote to her friend
Julie Karagina in Petersburg, whom she had dreamed (as all girls dream) of
marrying to her brother, and who was at that time in mourning for her own
brother, killed in Turkey. |
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Sorrow, it seems, is our common lot, my dear, tender friend Julie. |
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Your loss is so terrible that I can only explain it to myself as a
special providence of God who, loving you, wishes to try you and your excellent
mother. Oh, my friend! Religion, and religion alone, can- I will not say comfort
us- but save us from despair. Religion alone can explain to us what without its
help man cannot comprehend: why, for what cause, kind and noble beings able to
find happiness in life- not merely harming no one but necessary to the happiness
of others- are called away to God, while cruel, useless, harmful persons, or
such as are a burden to themselves and to others, are left living. The first
death I saw, and one I shall never forget- that of my dear sister-in-law- left
that impression on me. Just as you ask destiny why your splendid brother had to
die, so I asked why that angel Lise, who not only never wronged anyone, but in
whose soul there were never any unkind thoughts, had to die. And what do you
think, dear friend? Five years have passed since then, and already I, with my
petty understanding, begin to see clearly why she had to die, and in what way
that death was but an expression of the infinite goodness of the Creator, whose
every action, though generally incomprehensible to us, is but a manifestation of
His infinite love for His creatures. Perhaps, I often think, she was too
angelically innocent to have the strength to perform all a mother's duties. As a
young wife she was irreproachable; perhaps she could not have been so as a
mother. As it is, not only has she left us, and particularly Prince Andrew, with
the purest regrets and memories, but probably she will there receive a place I
dare not hope for myself. But not to speak of her alone, that early and terrible
death has had the most beneficent influence on me and on my brother in spite of
all our grief. Then, at the moment of our loss, these thoughts could not occur
to me; I should then have dismissed them with horror, but now they are very
clear and certain. I write all this to you, dear friend, only to convince you of
the Gospel truth which has become for me a principle of life: not a single hair
of our heads will fall without His will. And His will is governed only by
infinite love for us, and so whatever befalls us is for our good. |
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You ask whether we shall spend next winter in Moscow. In spite of my wish
to see you, I do not think so and do not want to do so. You will be surprised to
hear that the reason for this is Buonaparte! The case is this: my father's
health is growing noticeably worse, he cannot stand any contradiction and is
becoming irritable. This irritability is, as you know, chiefly directed to
political questions. He cannot endure the notion that Buonaparte is negotiating
on equal terms with all the sovereigns of Europe and particularly with our own,
the grandson of the Great Catherine! As you know, I am quite indifferent to
politics, but from my father's remarks and his talks with Michael Ivanovich I
know all that goes on in the world and especially about the honors conferred on
Buonaparte, who only at Bald Hills in the whole world, it seems, is not accepted
as a great man, still less as Emperor of France. And my father cannot stand
this. It seems to me that it is chiefly because of his political views that my
father is reluctant to speak of going to Moscow; for he foresees the encounters
that would result from his way of expressing his views regardless of anybody.
All the benefit he might derive from a course of treatment he would lose as a
result of the disputes about Buonaparte which would be inevitable. In any case
it will be decided very shortly. |
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Our family life goes on in the old way except for my brother Andrew's
absence. He, as I wrote you before, has changed very much of late. After his
sorrow he only this year quite recovered his spirits. He has again become as I
used to know him when a child: kind, affectionate, with that heart of gold to
which I know no equal. He has realized, it seems to me, that life is not over
for him. But together with this mental change he has grown physically much
weaker. He has become thinner and more nervous. I am anxious about him and glad
he is taking this trip abroad which the doctors recommended long ago. I hope it
will cure him. You write that in Petersburg he is spoken of as one of the most
active, cultivated, and capable of the young men. Forgive my vanity as a
relation, but I never doubted it. The good he has done to everybody here, from
his peasants up to the gentry, is incalculable. On his arrival in Petersburg he
received only his due. I always wonder at the way rumors fly from Petersburg to
Moscow, especially such false ones as that you write about- I mean the report of
my brother's betrothal to the little Rostova. I do not think my brother will
ever marry again, and certainly not her; and this is why: first, I know that
though he rarely speaks about the wife he has lost, the grief of that loss has
gone too deep in his heart for him ever to decide to give her a successor and
our little angel a stepmother. Secondly because, as far as I know, that girl is
not the kind of girl who could please Prince Andrew. I do not think he would
choose her for a wife, and frankly I do not wish it. But I am running on too
long and am at the end of my second sheet. Good-by, my dear friend. May God keep
you in His holy and mighty care. My dear friend, Mademoiselle Bourienne, sends
you kisses. |
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MARY |
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In the middle of the summer Princess Mary received an unexpected letter
from Prince Andrew in Switzerland in which he gave her strange and surprising
news. He informed her of his engagement to Natasha Rostova. The whole letter
breathed loving rapture for his betrothed and tender and confiding affection for
his sister. He wrote that he had never loved as he did now and that only now did
he understand and know what life was. He asked his sister to forgive him for not
having told her of his resolve when he had last visited Bald Hills, though he
had spoken of it to his father. He had not done so for fear Princess Mary should
ask her father to give his consent, irritating him and having to bear the brunt
of his displeasure without attaining her object. "Besides," he wrote,
"the matter was not then so definitely settled as it is now. My father then
insisted on a delay of a year and now already six months, half of that period,
have passed, and my resolution is firmer than ever. If the doctors did not keep
me here at the spas I should be back in Russia, but as it is I have to postpone
my return for three months. You know me and my relations with Father. I want
nothing from him. I have been and always shall be independent; but to go against
his will and arouse his anger, now that he may perhaps remain with us such a
short time, would destroy half my happiness. I am now writing to him about the
same question, and beg you to choose a good moment to hand him the letter and to
let me know how he looks at the whole matter and whether there is hope that he
may consent to reduce the term by four months." |
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After long hesitations, doubts, and prayers, Princess Mary gave the
letter to her father. The next day the old prince said to her quietly: |
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"Write and tell your brother to wait till I am dead.... It won't be
long- I shall soon set him free." |
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The princess was about to reply, but her father would not let her speak
and, raising his voice more and more, cried: |
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"Marry, marry, my boy!... A good family!... Clever people, eh? Rich,
eh? Yes, a nice stepmother little Nicholas will have! Write and tell him that he
may marry tomorrow if he likes. She will be little Nicholas' stepmother and I'll
marry Bourienne!... Ha, ha, ha! He mustn't be without a stepmother either! Only
one thing, no more women are wanted in my house- let him marry and live by
himself. Perhaps you will go and live with him too?" he added, turning to
Princess Mary. "Go in heavens name! Go out into the frost... the frost...
the frost! |
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After this outburst the prince did not speak any more about the matter.
But repressed vexation at his son's poor-spirited behavior found expression in
his treatment of his daughter. To his former pretexts for irony a fresh one was
now added- allusions to stepmothers and amiabilities to Mademoiselle Bourienne. |
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"Why shouldn't I marry her?" he asked his daughter.
"She'll make a splendid princess!" |
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And latterly, to her surprise and bewilderment, Princess Mary noticed
that her father was really associating more and more with the Frenchwoman. She
wrote to Prince Andrew about the reception of his letter, but comforted him with
hopes of reconciling their father to the idea. |
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Little Nicholas and his education, her brother Andrew, and religion were
Princess Mary's joys and consolations; but besides that, since everyone must
have personal hopes, Princess Mary in the profoundest depths of her heart had a
hidden dream and hope that supplied the chief consolation of her life. This
comforting dream and hope were given her by God's folk- the half-witted and
other pilgrims who visited her without the prince's knowledge. The longer she
lived, the more experience and observation she had of life, the greater was her
wonder at the short-sightedness of men who seek enjoyment and happiness here on
earth: toiling, suffering, struggling, and harming one another, to obtain that
impossible, visionary, sinful happiness. Prince Andrew had loved his wife, she
died, but that was not enough: he wanted to bind his happiness to another woman.
Her father objected to this because he wanted a more distinguished and wealthier
match for Andrew. And they all struggled and suffered and tormented one another
and injured their souls, their eternal souls, for the attainment of benefits
which endure but for an instant. Not only do we know this ourselves, but Christ,
the Son of God, came down to earth and told us that this life is but for a
moment and is a probation; yet we cling to it and think to find happiness in it.
"How is it that no one realizes this?" thought Princess Mary. "No
one except these despised God's folk who, wallet on back, come to me by the back
door, afraid of being seen by the prince, not for fear of ill-usage by him but
for fear of causing him to sin. To leave family, home, and all the cares of
worldly welfare, in order without clinging to anything to wander in hempen rags
from place to place under an assumed name, doing no one any harm but praying for
all- for those who drive one away as well as for those who protect one: higher
than that life and truth there is no life or truth!" |
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There was one pilgrim, a quiet pockmarked little woman of fifty called
Theodosia, who for over thirty years had gone about barefoot and worn heavy
chains. Princess Mary was particularly fond of her. Once, when in a room with a
lamp dimly lit before the icon Theodosia was talking of her life, the thought
that Theodosia alone had found the true path of life suddenly came to Princess
Mary with such force that she resolved to become a pilgrim herself. When
Theodosia had gone to sleep Princess Mary thought about this for a long time,
and at last made up her mind that, strange as it might seem, she must go on a
pilgrimage. She disclosed this thought to no one but to her confessor, Father
Akinfi, the monk, and he approved of her intention. Under guise of a present for
the pilgrims, Princess Mary prepared a pilgrim's complete costume for herself: a
coarse smock, bast shoes, a rough coat, and a black kerchief. Often, approaching
the chest of drawers containing this secret treasure, Princess Mary paused,
uncertain whether the time had not already come to put her project into
execution. |
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Often, listening to the pilgrims' tales, she was so stimulated by their
simple speech, mechanical to them but to her so full of deep meaning, that
several times she was on the point of abandoning everything and running away
from home. In imagination she already pictured herself by Theodosia's side,
dressed in coarse rags, walking with a staff, a wallet on her back, along the
dusty road, directing her wanderings from one saint's shrine to another, free
from envy, earthly love, or desire, and reaching at last the place where there
is no more sorrow or sighing, but eternal joy and bliss. |
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"I shall come to a place and pray there, and before having time to
get used to it or getting to love it, I shall go farther. I will go on till my
legs fail, and I'll lie down and die somewhere, and shall at last reach that
eternal, quiet haven, where there is neither sorrow nor sighing..." thought
Princess Mary. |
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But afterwards, when she saw her father and especially little Koko
(Nicholas), her resolve weakened. She wept quietly, and felt that she was a
sinner who loved her father and little nephew more than God. |
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